


Half-Past

by Dream_In_Color



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Hangover, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied Relationships, Original Character(s), POV Second Person, Past Relationship(s), Political Campaigns, Recreational Drug Use, Secret Relationship, Self-Hatred, also kind minor self-harm, basically they were together then broke up but still are secretly in love, but minor, if you consider "taking unknown drugs cause you hate your life and yourself" self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-27 03:22:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18295835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dream_In_Color/pseuds/Dream_In_Color
Summary: You want to scream and tell the universe this isn’t fair, that he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve having to put up with you, that you deserve better, to be better for him, you both deserve so much more than what you have or what you’ll get but you don’t do any of that, don’t have the energy or the will, and you know you’d just be scream it into the void. And if you say it out loud, speak it into creation, then it’ll be too real, maybe you won’t be able to ignore your own part in any of it anymore and you’ll have to do something about it and you can’t handle that. You won’t. So instead, you just close your eyes and fall back asleep.





	Half-Past

It’s half past ten when you stroll into your favorite club. You head straight for the bar, lean over to greet the guy behind it. His name tag says Yolanda tonight and you laugh, pointing. It’s different every time you see him and you haven’t seen that name before on anyone here. He smiles, says she’s the new girl, not in tonight but probably next time. You shrug, you don’t really care that much anyway, which he knows, and gives you your usual, starts your tab.

            You run into a few friends on the fringes of the action after you’ve downed half your drink already, and they pull you onto the dance floor. You down the rest of your drink and Mikey hands the glass off to someone. Terra and Lizzy are making out next to you and you smile. They’re good together. Robbie disappears and returns a few moments later, then a new song comes on and a grin splits your face. He smiles. It’s one of your favorites.

            It’s almost midnight and you’ve done a tray of shots and another glass and a half of your usual. You’re officially lit and you say as much to your friends and then start laughing so hard you have to lean on Robbie’s shoulder while you catch your breath. Mikey takes your glass from you and you almost protest until he’s motioning the whole group towards the back door.

            The air’s muggy and suppressive outside, worse than the body-heat fog of the club and you almost forgo the weed you know Mikey’s passing around to go back inside but you don’t. They don’t pass it to you directly, you don’t smoke, you don’t mind killing your liver but for whatever reason you’re protective of your lungs. They don’t push. You just stand next to them, breathing the laced-heavy air. Robbie fishes out a baggie of pills, hands them around. You swallow one, then get distracted watching the stars and the smoke from their blunt and then Robbie pulls you in to shotgun once and then you’re pressed against the wall, tongues colliding and the others are laughing, you think, but not really at you. You don’t care. You all expected this anyway.

            Eventually you all move back inside, and Robbie goes off to request some more music, and Mikey gets more shots, and Terra and Lizzy say they’re heading out, after the next round. Their apartment is only roommate-free until 3 am, Lizzy says, an overly-exaggerated suggestive wink and they’re laughing and laughing.

            You’re  pretty sure Lizzy and Terra are gone already. You’re dancing, mostly, trapped between your friends, their hands on your hips, until some other guy catches Mikey’s eye and he’s gone. Tony, with his Yolanda name tag still on, is there then, filling the gap and smiling. Break, he says, or mouths really, because you can’t hear anything over the pounding music and you can’t focus enough to filter it out. You’re _lit_. The realization makes you giggle, wrap your arms around Tony’s shoulders and kiss him. You’re pretty sure you’re high as fuck, too. You just kiss him harder.

            It’s 2 am and the place is closing. Robbie says he knows about a party. You climb in a cab with him and Tony because why the fuck not, you got nothing better to do.

            You get there and you see Greek letters plastered against the front of the house and Tony laughs at something you weren’t paying attention too but you smile anyway. You get inside and head straight for the kitchen, for the drinks. You’re already drunk but that just makes you want more. There’s more music and more dancing and then Tony’s pulling at your wrist, pulling you upstairs and you smile. You’re pretty sure this is why Robbie doesn’t like Tony. He’s jealous, your brain supplies. He’s nice to kiss but you don’t want to fuck him, not like Tony, and he knows that. But you can’t really think about Robbie when Tony’s pushing you into a strangers room and dropping to his knees.

            It’s 4 am and you’re back downstairs, and people are trickling out, Robbie’s nowhere to be found and you do one last shot before you find Tony again, out front smoking and he smiles, slow and fucked out and gorgeous and something in your heart _aches_ because you wish you could love Tony, properly love him, he’d be a great boyfriend you’re sure but you can’t and it’s not fair, to either of you, because you think Tony could love you back, if you let him.

            You smile back, but it’s small and he tilts his head a bit, thinks you’re just tired, says so as he pulls you over, gets a cab to his place. You stay in the cab when it pulls up to his building, kiss him goodnight but you never stay, that’s not the way the two of you work but he says “Text me when you get in, yeah?” and you agree, kiss him again. Then you give the cab an address that’s not your own.

            It’s 5 am and you’re opening not-your-door and kicking off your shoes. Turning on lights and the tv and about 15 minutes after sitting still your body rebels against you and you’re on your feet and in the bathroom in a matter of seconds, heaving into the toilet.

            You can’t really tell how long you’re there alone, but then you can hear the sound of a key in the lock and you smile a bit, to yourself, before another wave of nausea hits you.

            “Hi Noah.” You hear him call out. You try to respond but all you get out is a distant hum of agreement and groaning and more puking.

            Suddenly he’s there and then the only thing you can think is his name. _Max. Max. Mmaaxx._ And you can’t stop.

            “Noah.” He sighs and he’s _so_ disappointed and you know and it _kills_ you that it does that to him but you can’t stop and you wish you could, or that he could understand, could get it.

            “How bad is it?”

            “Six.” You manage to get out, although it sounds strange to you, distant and hollow. He disappears and brings you back a bottle of water and _God_ , you want to kiss him.

            Instead you manage a weak “thanks” and a few large gulps before you’re able to lean back a bit.

            “So…” he starts and you can’t do this right now or you’ll do something, say something, you’ll both regret.

            “Can’t we do this in the morning?”

            “It is morning, Noah.” He says like you’re a child. “It’s almost 5:30.”

            And you think maybe somewhere in the back of your mind you knew that but you didn’t really _know_ that and suddenly you’re very aware of your father's firm “2 am or else” curfew.

            “Shit.” You mumble. “He’s gonna kill me.”

            “When were you supposed to be home?” Max asks, his eyes on you. You look up at him but can’t quite meet his eyes. “Two.”

            “Jesus, Noah.” He breathes, exasperated and you’re just so _mad_ suddenly.

            “I’m a fuckin’ adult.” You say although you feel entirely contrary,  “I shouldn’t have a fuckin’ curfew anyway.”

            “Noah,” and why does he have to say your name so many times, it’ll be the death of you, you’re sure. “It’s election year, you know that.”

            And yes, you do, but you don’t give a fuck. It’s your father’s job and it’s his to worry about, you didn’t ask to be in the spotlight, he shoved you into it and fuck him if he thinks he can still tell you what to do.

            And it’s not that Max doesn’t know how you feel, doesn’t think they’re completely acceptable feelings, but he still works for your dad and he has his job to worry about.

            “So.” You finally manage and he sighs, overly dramatic in your opinion. There’s a pause, like he’s thinking.

            “You take anything tonight?”

“Does it matter?” you ask because you just don’t want to deal with this right now.

            “It always matters.” You stop because you don’t know what the connotation there is and your brain is working too slow to figure it out so finally you sigh, “Yeah. Don’t know what though.” And you know he’s going to be _pissed._

            “Noah! I’ve told you before! At the VERY least,” he says and his emphasis makes you twitch, trying to recoil from the disgust in his voice. “know what you’re taking.” There’s an awkward silence that descends on the room after that. Neither of you filling it. Until you do. Barely a whisper, trying to keep the tears at bay because you always get emotional when you’re on your way to a wicked hangover.

            “I’m sorry.” And you almost think he didn’t hear you except it’s too quiet for him not to have. He sighs again, closing his eyes for a moment.

            “Come on. Let’s both get to bed.” And your heart does something in your chest that you do your best to ignore. “As long as you feel like you can give the toilet some space?”

            You nod because you don’t entirely trust your voice at the moment, and Max hauls you to your feet. You can’t walk straight and your limbs aren’t quite cooperating at a speed that matches what your brain expects. You bump into the wall half way to the bedroom and Max puts an hand on your shoulder, guiding you. He hands you sweatpants and one of his t-shirts to sleep in and you yank your clothes off but your skinny jeans get caught around your ankles. Max helps get them over your feet and you try not to freak out when his hand bushes your ankle.

            You both climb in, back to back, and you try not to acknowledge how much your chest hurts, how much you want to roll over, but feeling the heat of him, pressed all the way down your back is better than nothing, so you close your eyes and try to fall asleep.

 

 

            You wake up, curled against Max’s chest, before being abruptly dropped straight to the mattress when he sits bolt-up-right. And you expected this, the cuddling, because this is what always happens and it never gets any easier, but then you realize he’s on the phone, sat up because something important is happening, but you can only spare so much energy to care because you’re using everything you have to not drag him back down and make him be your pillow again.

            “…was up late following leads…as soon as possible. I’m so sorry.” Max says into the phone as you drift in-and-out of the conversation, still drowsy. He jumps out of bed and you’re more awake now. He slams the closet door open.

            “Wa’s the rush?” You ask, words slurred together with sleep and maybe still some of whatever you took last night. Your head is killing you and Max is being entirely too loud.

            “I’m three hours late for work, Noah.” He says, like you’re an idiot, like he can’t believe he has to explain that to you as he throws himself into a suit.

            “Oh…” you say, because your brain still isn’t communicating properly with your mouth. “W’s ‘at m’dad?”

            “Yes.” he says, going to the mirror and straightening his tie. He runs his fingers through his hair, trying his best to look like he didn’t just roll out of bed. “And he’s pissed at me.” He sits down on the edge of the bed, and you want so badly to reach out and touch but you can’t make your arm listen and part of you is thankful. “God,” he breathes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe I slept in.”

            Internally, you preen, just a little, because he _never_ sleeps in and you know you’re part of the reason he stayed in bed after his alarm, part of the reason he hit the snooze button, stayed wrapped around you that extra time. Externally, you roll your eyes and say, “I’s the weekend.”

            “It’s an election year, Noah.” And god damn it if he doesn’t stop saying your name like that, you think you’ll punch him in his stupid gorgeous face. You want to say “How could I forget when everyone in my god damn life is more concerned with that than whether I’m drinking myself to an early grave or not?” but you don’t have the energy. You can’t even bring yourself to be snarky, which is rare for you, and say “Yes, you’ve mentioned.”

            Instead you just scoff, bury your face in his pillow, and say “Can you at least hand me some aspirin and water before you rush out?” and you’re sure there is some kind of accusation in your tone, at least you hear one, but you can’t tell if it translated through the pillow that you’re now speaking into.

            He sighs again, like he can’t believe he’s stuck babysitting you so often. You think he should’n’t’ve given you a key to his place, then, if he’s going to hate every second of you being around, but deep down you know that’s not true. He just worries because he cares but you know you make it hard, almost impossible for him, for anyone, everyone. He worries and he’s disappointed when you do these things anyway.

            “Yeah, sure.” And then he’s up, retrieving them from the kitchen, and you mumble a pathetic (even to your own ears) “Th’nk ‘ou.” when he sets them on the table and leaves for work. You breath in the scent of him, clinging to everything around you, his clothes that you’re wearing, his pillow your face is still buried in and you want to cry so badly, want to scream and tell the universe this isn’t fair, that he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve having to put up with you, that you deserve better, to be better for him, you both deserve so much more than what you have or what you’ll get but you don’t do any of that, don’t have the energy or the will, and you know you’d just be scream it into the void. And if you say it out loud, speak it into creation, then it’ll be too real, maybe you won’t be able to ignore your own part in any of it anymore and you’ll have to do something about it and you can’t handle that. You won’t. So instead, you just close your eyes and fall back asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism is always welcome! Also I'm terrible at tagging so if I missed any please just let me know!!!


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